“It’s lovely to speak with you,” Brooke said, her voice as slick and bright as a Hollywood billboard. “I’ve just seen your boyfriend’s interview. He came off so well. And what a hunk. I had some ideas about how we might use all of this to our advantage.”
Here it came.
“Yes?” I asked, leaving it at that.
“Sales are already ticking up this morning, and we haven’t even done anything yet.”
“Done anything? With what?” I played dumb, curious to see how she’d spin this into something that didn’t stink beyond high heaven.
“Listen, I know it’ll sound crass, but this is a golden opportunity.” She lowered her voice as if we were co-conspirators. “You and the rugged songwriter. You couldn’t write something this intriguing for your readers. I mean, a romance author with no love of her own meets moody songwriter with a vicious ex-wife? It’s like printing money.”
My stomach tightened. I begged to disagree about the premise. I’d written much juicier plots than this one. However, that was not really the point.
“Brooke, I’m a private person, with no interest in bringing more attention to my love life than there already is. This whole thing’s been extremely distracting.”
That often got them to back off. The last thing Hawthorne wanted was for me to miss a deadline. However, this seemed to have little persuasion over the overzealous marketing bot.
“I’m talking a two-page spread in magazines. Photos of the two of you together, holding hands while walking on the beach. Then an interview with you talking about how you found love with a Nashville cowboy. We could even throw in the southern angle.”
“Southern angle?”
“Yes, you’re from Alabama. He’s from Tennessee. All you needed was for the right country boy to show up in your life. Readers will eat it up with a spoon and lick it afterward.”
I stared out the window at the ocean, gray and restless this morning.
“My life isn’t a marketing campaign,” I said, keeping my voice even. “I have a son to think about. He doesn’t need any of this in his life right now. Or ever, for that matter.”
“But it’s nothing untoward,” she said quickly. “Your readers feel connected to you. They want you to have a love of your own. People won’t be able to stop talking about it or rooting for you.”
Rooting for me? She made me sound pathetic.
“I’m not interested,” I said. “It’s not my style. I just want to write my books and live a quiet life.”
“Listen, I didn’t want to bring this up, but your sales have been declining in recent years. This is just the boost your career needs.”
Declining. I closed my eyes for a second, a wave of nausea flooding through me. Was that even true? They didn’t share sales or royalty data with me. I just hoped for checks to appear.
She went on.
“And honestly, this could be the foundation for your next book. A romance author who's written about love her whole life finally finds it herself? With a mysterious songwriter? You wouldn't even have to make anything up. It writes itself. And this is divine timing. Your Netflix movie premieres in two weeks. Maybe we can even get Ivy James to come to the premiere party. Or, better yet, what if she sings one of Hunter’s new songs? I understand he’s written a new one, and rumor has it you inspired it.”
“How do you know that?”
She plowed ahead without answering.
“Our PR girl can get the story out to magazines and podcasts, even the morning shows. Think of it, and I’m just talking out loud here. Like I said, we’ll have gorgeous photos of the two of you taken—all looking very spontaneous. At the beach. Sitting on your deck. Maybe even attending one of your son’s games orschool functions. You talk about how you’ve finally found love. It’s simply too perfect.”
My fingers tightened around my coffee mug. “I’m going to stop you there. No one gets close to my son. I don’t want him photographed or talked about. I’m sorry. But unless it’s in my contract, I’m not doing it.”
The brightness in her voice dimmed, just slightly. “Understood.”
We sat in silence for a moment.
Then she rallied. “Just think about it, all right? This could be very good for you.”
“I’m a writer, Brooke. Not a reality television star craving attention. And I’ve got to go. I need to write.”
“Yes, yes, well, I’ll be in touch.”
